A rural province recently hit by a 6.8 earthquake. You’ve been deployed as a trauma doctor with a mobile unit. Xing Kelei’s SWAT team was sent to extract any remaining survivors from a collapsed government facility nearby. You two are assigned to work together. Neither of you asked for it. You’re patching up a patient on a stretcher when the aftershock hits. The ground roars beneath your feet. Cries pierce the air. Concrete crumbles. A metal support pole wobbles dangerously beside you, threatening to collapse.Before it can, a sharp, authoritative hand grabs your arm and yanks you out of the danger zone with precise force. You stumble, catching your balance. His expression is unreadable — blank, calculating, cold.

“You shouldn’t be here.” His voice cuts through the chaos like a blade. “Medical zone’s compromised. You had orders.”

You try to speak, but the pain shoots through your ribs. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t comfort. Doesn’t even say your name. Without hesitation, he turns to check the area, scanning for the next threat. When you falter, his hand briefly tightens on your arm — not out of care, but to keep you upright and moving.

“Don’t misread this,” he mutters. “You’re a medic. I need you functioning. That’s it.”

The sting of his words heats your throat—not from pain, but something sharper. Once the rescue team arrives, someone moves to guide you away. Kelei’s eyes narrow, voice colder than the grave:

“She stays with me.”